Stripper Lessons

by John O'Brien

  Back at the bar Candy and Tamara are laughing uncontrollably. The cocktail waitress finally picks up her tray, his the only order on it, and heads toward him. As soon as he spots her she looks at him. She glowers; she probably thinks he’s been watching her the whole time. Special trip, that won’t help, he thinks. This place is packed; how could it be that her tray isn’t loaded with drinks? Here she comes. Should he talk first? Here she comes. Let her. This is nuts; what did he do? Where did this problem come from? He’s a problem magnet. People look at him and right away they don’t like him, want to make trouble for him, like that fat fuck corporate partner. Not Stevie though. She’s like a window to a nicer place.

  “Sparkling cider?” She says it real snidely, like it’s a Shirley Temple with double cherry and this is an Old West saloon. Never mind that they don’t serve alcohol in here even if he wanted it. “Three-fifty,” like he doesn’t have it.

  He was ready for her, and he proffers a ten, which rather than take from his hand, she just stares at, moving her tray directly below it and presumably waiting for him to drop it, as if not wanting to even touch a thing that he is also touching. Released from his fingers, the bill floats down to the tray. Cocktail clicks open her plastic change box and files the bill in the clipped lid section under Tens, withdraws six ones; two quarters come from the partitioned wells in the base of the box. She places his change in a roughly fanned stack and nudges the tray at him: your move. He picks up the six ones, leaving the quarters, as he sometimes does, for her. This should be no problem; he happens to know that a lot of guys take the quarters too. Those guys want to save all their tipping for the dancers, but Carroll knows that the cocktail waitresses work hard around here.

  “You forgot your quarters, Mr. Trump,” she sneers. Now the hand’s on the hip. She feels it should be there.

  He doesn’t know what to say. He knows he’s being insulted, but he isn’t quick enough to formulate a response that she won’t be able to use against him—this much he can see.

  “They’re for you,” he tries, forcing himself to meet her eye. He’s in a conflict, and he doesn’t want to shy away, doesn’t want this girl to sow false seed about him in Stevie’s garden. “I think it’s fair,” he adds, seeing that she’s not satisfied with they’re for you. “It’s what I usually tip when I get a drink. I know you’re pretty new here, and I hope this is enough for you. None of the other girls ever said anything about it.” Further than he meant to go, but the ball was rolling.

  Her expression doesn’t change, not that he can see. “Yeah. Right. Thanks. Forget it,” she says. Hand leaves hip, and she splits.

  Wondering if Stevie saw the exchange, he looks around the place. A little shaky, he’d sure feel better if he could garner her approval, a nod, a reassuring smile. She’s a sharp cookie and would probably know by now that this waitress is difficult. If she noticed them talking she might have taken an interest and watched closely. He’s sure she’d be on his side. But he can’t find her. She must have slipped into the ladies’ room, or maybe into the dressing area. Maybe she’ll be dancing next. In any case she’s not in the room, and he doubts that she witnessed his conversation with the cocktail waitress. It did happen pretty quick, and she is a busy girl.

  The DJ/doorman announces Candy. How’d she get up there so fast? Seems like she was just down here talking at the bar. Maybe the thing with the waitress wasn’t that quick after all. Candy’s routine is not exactly innovative. Pretty standard fare. He’d rather have Stevie up there right now. Give him a chance to stare at her without it seeming awkward. Give him a chance to tip her, maybe another thank you. Maybe she’d wink at him, smile, or be facing him when she removes her top. Any kind of interaction would be great. It would give him a chance to figure out what the best way to reach her is. He really wants to talk to her, wants to foster their relationship. Just to make a move, like with Solo, is important, and it could lead to . . . coffee tonight after work? a phone number? He craves some forward motion here (not a conclusion, doesn’t have to be anywhere near a conclusion). He learned that at the office this week. It would have been great to find Solo, and he’ll find it next week, but just looking and acting beyond the parameters of prayer was in itself a reward, like a carrot on a stick, maybe, worst case, a great big con. Yet the cart gets pulled, and the carrot, at least, doesn’t get any farther away. Candy’s okay, just another pretty girl taking off her clothes for him. Face it: how much of this can you really look at?

  “Everything,” says a woman’s voice, spent and from the booths behind him, not really loud and only clear to him because he’s so close.

  He turns to look. It’s Tasha, that girl who was gone for a while, giving a table dance to some stiff. She’s got her leg up on one end of the hinged counter that drops down over the customer’s lap once he is seated. This counter is evidently for the dancer’s protection, but Tasha uses it to her advantage. Her panties, from this angle, look to be held back by her left hand, close to her raised thigh and off her crotch. Other leg meets solid ground, and the stiff is getting an eyeful of How Tasha Works. For this demonstration her breasts, the usual objects of a table dance, have been superseded by this, her nexus, a more urgent matter, and her right hand is the guide, combing, exploring, opening Stiff’s eyes and mind to these troubled tender waters. Stiff tries hard. He is . . . uncertain of his response.

  Carroll can see the guy through her parted legs, the way his head sinks on his shoulder, ever lower, peering into Tasha’s pussy, trying hard to see into her cunt, like there’s an answer in there, an answer that he needs right now. Carroll hates this guy. Tasha, her digital encouragement notwithstanding, doesn’t appear too enamored of him either. She drops her shoulders and lets out a sigh, moves her right hand to her right buttock.

  “Here,” she says with thinly veiled disillusionment, “you do it. I’ve had enough.” So she stands, legs parted, cynically proffered.

  Like that until the song ends. Tasha backs away, Stiff bails, she to the ladies’ room, he to greener pastures. Carroll returns to Candy. Candy returns to the dressing area.

  Stevie, whence unclear, crosses the room. Always around somewhere, a girl like this, who isn’t? Dead guys, that’s who. Silly now, but it looks like she’s walking toward him, and he looks away rather than appear the expectant fool. But you’ll never guess what. . . .

  “Hi. How are you doing?” she says. Chipper. To her it’s another moment, here we go on another any-old moment. “That’s a great shirt, I wanted to come over and tell you. Is it new?” Funny, but the shirt really does look kind of nice, she thinks.

  He yanks his eyes from the sparkling apple cider before him, sticky stuff, and manages Stevie’s chin. “Yes, I just bought it today.” Pulling a fold of sleeve for her inspection: “See, there are black curlicues on the black fabric. I don’t know if you can see—the light has to be right—but they’re there.” He stays with the sleeve for a beat, then returns to her chin but diffidently drops to her neck, looking at her neck, depriving himself of her angel eyes, penance for a weak demonstration. He’s a poor source of entertainment. Want fun? Look elsewhere.

  “Oh yes, I see,” she says. She loves this guy. Why can’t all men be this sweet? Of course that could get dreary . . . okay, half the men? Well some men anyhow. Some men should be this sweet. Time to go. “Well . . . I’m glad to see you made it in tonight. I hope you’ll stick around and watch me dance.”

  Can’t just let her leave. Look at her eyes. “Oh yes, I came to see you dance. I came to see you dance. When will you be on?” And he interrupts before she can get an answer out: “Not that it matters. Anytime’s fine, you know. I’ll be here all night, so I’ll see you whenever you go on.” Now he’s at her eyes. It’s going okay.

  “Actually I’m on right after Candy.” Puppy. “Next. As a matter of fact I was heading over there to get ready when I saw you.”

  Carroll thinks, What about before? Didn’t you see me before? “I’ll be here,” he says optimistically, in
dicating his chair. Then, worried that she might think him cheap, a sit-off-the-stage-so-you-can-dodge-the-tips freeloader, he adds, “I like to sit on the stage. I would sit on the stage, especially to see you dance, but there’s no place to sit there. (an arm outstretched, more demonstration) It’s pretty crowded.”

  Yes, yes, little puppy. I know you’re not trying to stiff me. “Yes, they do a good business here, don’t they? Well I gotta run, maybe I’ll see you a little later.” She sees that he still looks worried. Better let him know that I don’t think he’s trying to stiff me. “Hey, and thanks again for the table dance the other night.” Was it one or two? “That was very nice of you. I had a good time.” She’s gone, perpetual motion.

  “Bye,” he gets out, and in time because she waves backward to him without turning around: gotta run.

  He tries to watch Candy, but he can’t keep his eyes from the curtain that leads to the dressing area. It might swing open, part in response to a bump or a breeze, and reveal a glimpse of Stevie. He’d like to see that, catch her alone, doing something common like pulling off a sock-stocking. It would be a way to understand better, a window to who she is and what she thinks of things. We can be sure of this much: she likes him. Really, this is quite a coup. Ground has been covered well. He evidently has a knack for this. Something clicks. She’s in control, where he feels she should be. There’s a dynamic at work here that he had better get a hold of. As with Solo, this is no time to procrastinate. He doubts he could even if he had a choice. Best watch her dance, refrain from tipping as a way to further separate himself from the pack, but ask for a table dance as soon as she’s done. Give her a chance to catch her breath, then ask for a table dance, a table. Seems like you’d call it just a table for short, seems like if the dancers were talking among themselves they’d call it a table. Candy leaves the stage. DJ/doorman informs those in attendance that that was her third of three and that a lovelylady by the name of Stevie will be out next for the first of three. As Candy returns to collect her tips the curtain does indeed swing open long enough for Carroll to witness a flash of flesh and blond hair. Beautiful. Candy looks happy picking up her money. She did well with this set. DJ/doorman is watching her too, no music on right now so he capriciously spins a knob on the lighting console. Things red in the room turn black, and Carroll looks up. Could’ve guessed: all the lights are green.

  Then lots of colors. Click go the moments and she is there, pretty dancer, pretty girl, pretty person (very person). Easy stuff for her, but Carroll can hear his heartbeat, feel the blood in his veins, like you’re not there yet but here’s a reason to keep on. For this first she wears. . . . But all details smack unworthy of description in the light of What Stevie Is. They are so many notes to the music, pixels on the screen, trees in the forest . . . no, less than that, they are shadowy contributors, not participants. She is a singular thing amidst a group of witnesses, a starlet surrounded by leering executive producers. Carroll’s old Vega is sitting out there in the lot, cloaked in darkness and, one can’t help but wonder even in this paradise called Southern California especially if one has ever been in the dark and blighted cities of the East, perhaps a modicum of rust. Maybe? Unobserved in the deepest corners of the farthest reaches of a blueprint maze, visited maybe once by a graphite explorer traveling across the Plane of Draft Table, an intrepid mouse cursor lost in a jungle of icons, a CADscape? That rust, say in a shock tower, got there by itself. Innocent steel now in the throes of metamorphosis, like coal to crystal, something from something else, a long, slow screw. Click goes the mouse. There are hands at the ends of those things, and lots of colors.

  Think about Candy: now there’s a girl he’s seen naked many times, and while it may not be as thrilling as it once was to him, when she took her clothes off tonight she was still a naked girl. This is true of all the dancers he’s ever seen. The thrill of seeing them naked moves along a downward slope, diminishing as the number of times he sees them increases. Of course there are minor glitches, jumps in the graph, but generally that’s how it works around here. Stevie’s not like that. Though compared to how much time he’s spent watching most of the other girls he’s only seen her dance a few times, he is familiar enough with the program to know that she’s different, so very clearly, so elementally different. Not something he ever expected to show up on this stage. It’s no longer three of three to him; it’s one of one, amorphous segments of time that hold her before him, brief lapses that go unnoticed by him, caught in rapturous recollection of the vision, the one just now gone away, by her too, caught in the celeritous moves that lead her from song to song, from naked to more naked, from dealer to dealt.

  This set is over for the room. For Carroll it lingers slickerly, saliva stretching mouth to mouth at the close of a deep and tangled kiss. But no, truth is Stevie’s done, back in the dressing area wrapping her ass in lace.

  “Stevie, gentlemen. Put your hands together for the lovely Stevie. Don’t forget, gentlemen, topless table dances are available from any one of our lovelyladies . . . including our next lovelylady . . . (papers ruffle). They’re up close and personal, so be sure to ask. . . . The lovely Andrea, gentlemen. Coming up next is our newest lovelylady—I know some of you have met her already—newest . . . by the name of Andrea.” DJ/doorman gives it a rest.

  Carroll’s really very preoccupied with Stevie, more so even than in nights past. This new girl, while quite nice, potential dream material if you think about it, just can’t manage to steal his mind away. Sure, he watches as she takes the stage, one click more concerned with her routine than the other girls with theirs, than even she will be in precious few days to come, aimin’ to please on this her first night, if not her first set. Watches, yes, but his heart’s not in it. Like when he was a kid home alone and Mom was out on a date. She’d always promise to be home at a certain hour, and she would always be late. That gap, the difference between promised and actual, never failed to plunge him into terror and trepidation. Dad had gone way south, like dead, during one of his own missed deadlines, and that put it beyond him to count on the fact that Mom, though always late, eventually did return. Always had, without fail. Still, it was all just so much rationalization, not much help when the clock was ticking and she was late and he was alone watching the clock tick her into later still. Special treat: watch past-bedtime programs with impunity! Watch them, sure. Look at them, more like. There was no way he could follow them, much less enjoy them, with Mom out past her bedtime. He didn’t think this far into it back then, but of course the irony is that there was also no way he could watch them at all when she was home on time. Yeah, Andrea is way hot. Too bad he can’t follow. He just can’t follow.

  The curtain didn’t close completely (it rarely does, she’s noticed, just like every place she’s worked, and isn’t that funny? like they view this all as work, being naked, being naked on their time, whatever context: work), and Stevie can see this girl Andrea out there giving it her all. Looks better than me, she thinks.

  Candy, lingering back here like she’s never gonna leave, nudges Stevie’s elbow with a soiled slipper and says, “Look at this. What do you suppose this is? Gum? It wasn’t there when I came in tonight.”

  Dressing in privacy is a rare treat when working, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to happen tonight. She glances at the slipper but doesn’t really see anything on it. “Gum, I guess,” she says.

  Candy sets her mouth: I knew it. Ready to see gum more than ever now, she pulls back the slipper: gum. “Well how do I get it out?” she wants to know.

  Jeez, that Andrea’s got a swell ass. Did I ever look that good? What is it? Lighter fluid? Or will that ruin the fabric? Oh hell, better see if it really is gum before I start giving advice. Always like this, no shortcuts, no way to even pull your fucking panties on without an audience.

  “Lemme see again,” says Stevie, and Candy deferentially hands her the slipper. “This here? This little spot?” It’s a tiny, crusty dot, right over the big toe.

&nbs
p; Candy nods solemnly: what do we do now?

  Stevie casts about for a knife, finds a nail file sticking out of a makeup pouch bearing the legend EVA lettered with a laundry marker like for kids at camp, and flicks off the offending matter with two strokes. “There you go,” she says, handing the slipper back. Who the hell is Eva?

  Thank-yous are interrupted by Andrea, who is between songs. This girl’s really darling, and young, and Stevie hasn’t even been here a week, and now she’ll be banished to the periphery of attention. Did I ever look like that? Brand new, a perfect image, a mirror.

  “Hiya!” sparkles Andrea. She’s what Stevie’s boy-friend would call a nice piece of work.

  . . . work, or sometime during the day if that’s too late. Maybe she’s off tomorrow. Okay, he doesn’t want to get ahead of himself. First things first, and first thing is a table dance. Carroll watches the curtain, the side one, the one that Stevie will eventually, if she ever finishes dressing, come out of. Not the stage curtain, the one that new Andrea will come out of for her second of three.

  And come out they do, both of them in fact, out of their respective curtains. For some reason Stevie looks a little distressed all of a sudden, and maybe it would be prudent to wait and not ask for a table dance right this minute. Andrea looks great to those who have an eye for her, not to mention genuinely pleased to be naked. Something may be missing there though. She takes her clothes off as if it were a conclusion instead of an implication, like if the attention of one of the guys along the rail got too graphic, too lecherous and to the point, she would be bewildered. This is all lost on Carroll, who is consumed with anxiety about how best to time his table dance request, though it helps to get another look at Stevie’s face, already relaxing into laughter with some guy at the rear counter. Nice how she’s so friendly to everybody, even these jerks.